What makes us human
by frenchie93
Summary: A teenchester story, AU, Dean 16, Sam 12. Another town, another school, all normal for the Winchesters, until the night everything changes, the night Sam got taken. Then all hell breaks loose.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: A teenchester story, AU, Dean 16, Sam 12. Another town, another school, all normal for the Winchesters, until the night everything changes, the night Sam got taken. Then all hell breaks loose.

Author's note: This story will not be a oneshot, I don't know how many chapters it will be, maybe ten, maybe five, hell maybe thirty, I have no idea, I just know that the whole thing is in my mind and I already know how everything is going to end. It will be from Dean's POV most of the story, but not entirely, I have planned a few chapters for Sam. John will also be in this, he won't be a complete asshole, but he is john, so he won't exactly be father of the year either.

I will try to publish one chapter per week, if people are interesting. So please let me know what you think.

Warnings: Some cursing, some torture in some chapters, but nothing too graphic, and nothing sexual. But considering it's a "Sam is kidnapped" kind of story be warned that things will get hard for Sam. It will NOT be a death fic, just so we're clear. No slash either. Just brotherly love.

What makes us human

"Anyway, it doesn't matter how much, how often, or how closely you keep an eye on things because you can't control it. Sometimes things and people just go. Just like that."

Cecelia Ahern

They were staying in Detroit, Michigan, in another crappy motel room, waiting for their dad to return. Sam and Dean were going to a school where he had enrolled them a few days earlier. Pretending to be normal, training after school- the usual for the Winchesters boys. At one exception: Sammy was acting strange. Stranger than usual that is. He was quiet, moody, and seemed to be a little bit freaked. Now the moody part, Dean understood- after all, Sam was almost starting his teenager years. But the freaked part, well, that one was new. It was kinda obvious that something was bothering the kid. Obvious to Dean, at least. So when they were getting ready to eat one night, nearly a week after they'd arrived, Dean wasn't entirely surprise when Sam started asking questions, followed by a weird request.

"You thing Dad is coming back soon?" Typical Sam.

"You know I don't know that Sammy."

"Yeah, but I just don't really like that city."

Something was off here, because Sam normally hated the moving. He'd always been glad whenever their dad needed more time to do a job, as it gave him more time to make friends, to be _normal_.

"Someone's giving trouble at school?"

Not that Dean thought this was the case, Sam seemed to like this school.

"No, I just, I don't know, I've got a bad feeling about this town."

 _A bad feeling?_ That could mean a million things. Of course it was up to Dean to find out, because their dad wasn't here, and okay Dean was used to taking care of things, and he didn't mind, most of the time, but really it would be nice sometimes to know that he wasn't so alone in this.

"Don't worry Sammy, Dad checked it. Nothing's wrong here."

That didn't seem to appease his brother a bit.

"Maybe we could just go, find another motel, somewhere else. I don't care where, you can even pick the place, just as long as we get out of here."

Now that got Dean's attention. Sam sounded really scared, and desperate. Looking at him with those puppy eyes- _the_ _traitor-_ tucking anxiously at his sleeves and waiting for Dean to make it all better. If these decisions were only his to make, he would have probably gathered their things and hightailed it the hell out of here if his brother wanted it so badly. Over the years he had learned to trust Sam's instincts, except their dad had given them direct orders. _Stay put, wait for me_. Unless there was a real danger here, Dean couldn't disobeyed an order. It just wasn't in his nature.

"Sam we can't just pack and leave! Come on, you know Dad told us to wait for him right here. That's what we're gonna do, period."

Ouch _,_ just _ouch._ The look Sammy was giving him was seriously kicking him down. But he couldn't back down.

"Dude, unless you've got a real reason we have to stay put."

Sometimes he sucked at being a big brother.

"Please Dean, please, just trust me on this one. Something bad is gonna happen- I just,... I can _feel_ it."

He had to fix this, he _had_ to. He couldn't just turn Sam off if he seemed so eager to go.

"Okay, what about this: we stay here tonight, cause it's almost nine and too late to do anything now. But, if by tomorrow you still got this bad feeling stuff going on, I'll call dad and ask him if we can go, okay?"

There was so many things wrong with this plan, because once morning came and Dean called John, even if he did answer- and that was a _huge_ If- he wasn't gonna give them the clear to pack and wait in another town. Dean knew that. Hell, even Sam knew that. Sam also knew that if John said no, then Dean wasn't going to disobey.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm not hungry. I'm gonna go to bed early, 'm tired."

Dean was eating alone tonight then.

When it was time to go and join Sammy to sleep, Dean was extra careful that night, checking the salt lines three times, locking the doors and windows, and making sure the gun he placed under his pillow was clean and ready to fire, just in case. He couldn't please his brother by moving out, but he sure as hell could make sure that nothing got past him and hurt the little guy. By the time he was finally ready to go to bed, he knew that Sam wasn't sleeping yet.

"Goodnight Sammy."

The sound of someone settling in bed could be heard, a cover being put over someone's head, and then the words:

"Goodnight Dean."

Maybe Dean didn't entirely suck at being a big brother.

Neither of them knew it then, but this would be the last conversion between them for a long time.

 _Something's wrong_. That was the first thing that came to Dean's mind as he was awakened in the cold, dark room. He reached for the shotgun under his pillow out of reflex, and practice. Then turned to his brother. Sammy seemed to be sleeping peacefully, finally settled, and Dean could relax and breathe again. After checking the room for possible danger he went back to sleep, reassured that he'd just been paranoid and that it had been a stupid nightmare he probably won't even remember by morning that had woken him. After what seemed to be only a few minutes, but could have been hours actually, he was abruptly awakened again, but this times it was because of a soft but frightened plea that echoed thought the dark room. _Sam_. "Dean, help!"

The words were simple, short, not screamed, almost whispered, but it was plenty enough to have Dean awake. He reached for his gun again, and turned to see what was wrong. There really wasn't time to do anything, because when he looked by his brother's bed, he saw him being somehow dragged away by a man. A strange looking, creepy, yellow eyed man, who was trying to get a hold of his brother to take him god knows where and do god knows what. Dean fired the gun, which didn't have any effect, except to piss the guy, _monster_ , off, and in a switch of a hand, Dean was up against the wall, unable to move, unable to speak, and unable to save his brother. That was when things got really ugly, really fast. Sam was trying to get free: kicking, punching, pulling, yelling, even biting. But even though he was a tough kid- being Dean's kid brother and all- he was still twelve, only twelve, and caught off guard, with no real useful weapon against a monster twice his size who was capable of some nasty mojo on top of everything else. And even if Sam was still very capable, and managed to punch the thing hard a few times, the end result really wasn't a surprise when the _monster-_ the soon to be dead son a bitch as soon as Dean got his hands on him- landed an unforgivable kick to the kid's head, knocking him unconscious for a few seconds, enough time for the creep to tie up Sam's hands with rope, and tape his mouth shut with duct tape. Which Dean found very odd considering that this monster had had no problem shutting _his_ mouth with his freaking mind. He couldn't do anything but watch helplessly as Sam was taken away. His little brother glanced at him one last time, before disappearing from his view, carried by a creature who'd just shattered Dean's life, and all the Winchesters, in the three small minutes that the struggle had lasted. Dean was left pressed against the wall, still trapped, with only one mantra in his head: _Sam is gone, Sam is gone, Sam is gone_.

TBC...

Only one way for me to know if you liked it. Reviews XD.


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: A teenchester story, AU, Dean 16, Sam 12. Another town, another school, all normal for the Winchesters, until the night everything changes, the night Sam got taken. Then all hell breaks loose.

Author's note: This story will not be a oneshot, I don't know how many chapters it will be, maybe ten, maybe five, hell maybe thirty, I have no idea, I just know that the whole thing is in my mind and I already know how everything is going to end. It will be from Dean's POV most of the story, but not entirely, I have planned a few chapters for Sam. John will also be in this, he won't be a complete asshole, but he is john, so he won't exactly be father of the year either.

I will try to publish one chapter per week, if people are interesting. So please let me know what you think.

Warnings: Some cursing, some torture in some chapters, but nothing too graphic, and nothing sexual. But considering it's a "Sam is kidnapped" kind of story be warned that things will get hard for Sam. It will NOT be a death fic, just so we're clear. No slash either. Just brotherly love.

What makes us human

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." Terry Pratchett

 **Previously on What makes us human:**

He couldn't do anything but watch helplessly as Sam was taken away. His little brother glanced at him one last time, before disappearing from his view, carried by a creature who'd just shattered Dean's life, and all the Winchesters, in the three small minutes that the struggle had lasted. Dean was left pressed against the wall, still trapped, with only one mantra in his head: _Sam is gone, Sam is gone, Sam is gone_.

 **Now**

After what felt like hours but was only a few seconds, Dean was finally able to move again. As soon as he was free, he was out of the door, out of the motel room, and into the street. He had only a gun full of salt in his hands, a silver knife in his pocket, and a worn down pajama on his back. He hadn't even taken the time to put on some shoes, there just hadn't been time to do anything else but chasing out into the cold night after his brother. Dean knew that in a case of abduction, supernatural or not, time was all that mattered. Time made the difference between being alive and being _dead_. And Dean Winchester wasn't going to be late, no, not for this. So he ran as fast as he could- which was pretty fast cause he'd always been good at running- but by the time he made it out to the street, he barely had time to catch a glimpse of a white van leaving the road, taking a swift turn, only to disappear from his sight. Chasing it now was pointless, but that didn't stop him from trying. If he was fast enough, lucky enough, if god would just this one time be on his fucking side, then maybe, _just_ _maybe,_ he might be able to catch a plate number, a car model, or any detail that could help him find Sam. But apparently no one was on his side tonight, or any other night for that matter, because just like that, Dean had lost his brother. He was out of breath, alone, in the dark, on a stupid road without shoes on. To anyone who would have passed right by him at that moment, he would have probably seemed like some lunatic. But a lunatic wasn't what he was. He was just a big brother who had failed to do the most important task he ever had to. _Looking out for Sammy_.

 _It's okay Dean, breathe, just breathe, Sammy needs you now, go back to the motel, call Dad, look for clues. Keep it together, Sammy needs you._

There was no point in staying in the street now, so he went back to the motel room, thinking that someone must have called the police, with the shooting and all. But no one was there, no police car, no people on the street freaking out, just no one. It was as if nothing had even happened. Which was impossible, a gunshot was the kind of things that made some noise, people should have heard it. Someone should have called 911 by now. Then Dean got it: _the yellow eyed monster_. That thing, whatever it was, must have concealed the sounds coming from their room somehow. It hadn't wanted to be disturbed. _Crap_. At least it gave Dean one advantage, he could search the whole room without anyone interfering, without having to think up some stupid lies to cover up the truth. But first things first. He had to call his dad.

One, two, three, for, five rings later, then _voicemail_. What a shock there.

"Dad, you have to come back, something snatched Sammy, it had yellow eyes, it slammed me against a wall, and just… it just took Sam, dad. I'm gonna look for clues, I'll find something, don't worry, I will, but I just… please just get here okay?"

Ending the one way conversation, Dean passed a hand over his mouth and started doing what he was best at: Hunting. The motel room seemed perfectly normal, the salt lines remained intact, no windows broken, no signs of forced entry. Nothing. It was as if the monster just managed to open the door, walk past the salt lines with no effort, and grab Sam. Something suddenly caught Dean's eyes: there on the door handle was some kind of yellow powder. _Sulfur_. Shit, only one thought entered Dean's mind. _Demon_. A demon had taken Sam. A demon that wasn't repulsed by salt, or any of the sigils that Dean had placed all over the place. This was bad. Scratch that- this was freaking bad. Demons didn't have many weak spots. There was holy water, and the devil's trap to keep them locked, but Dean didn't know much about them. Well, that was about to change, because a demon had decided to make it personal by taking one of the most precious thing Dean's ever had.

Dean had work to do.

 _ **Five days later…**_

Dean was going to lose his mind. Five days, five fucking days, and he wasn't getting any closer to finding Sam. Their Dad had finally gotten the message two days later after that dreadful night, and by the time he got there, Dean had already searched the whole town, showing pictures of his brother, looking for a white van. No one knew anything. Sam was just gone, and Dean was useless. The relief that he'd felt when his dad had finally shown up was short lived. Even if he wasn't alone in this anymore, it didn't change anything, because John Winchester had no clue as to where Sammy might have been taken. He'd called all of his hunting buddies, asking for help for the first time in a long time. He wasn't a rookie anymore, and usually had everything under control. Not this time. The only comforting words he offered his remaining son were: "Don't worry, we'll get him back." Dean usually trusted the man completely, but a voice, a stupid, annoying voice kept telling him in his mind: _You're never gonna see your brother again. You let him down, and now he's gone. He asked for your help, you failed and he paid the price_.

Dean went to bed after his father ordering him to get some sleep. He wasn't going to be of any use if he kept making himself sick over this, and he had to gain some strength so he could be at his best for when he killed this yellow eyed demon. As he climbed into bed, he couldn't help the words that came out of his mouth without his permission. Years of habit, years of repeating the same words over and over every night.

"Goodnight Sammy." This time there was no one to answer.

The next day, they finally got a lead, thank god. Some demonic activity had been reported a few miles from where they were staying. It wasn't much, but it was something. His dad wanted them to split up, cover more ground, interview different people, and Dean wasn't going to complain. They had lost enough time as it was. After spending hours talking to people about strange animal deaths, weird smokes coming out of people, he went back to their present motel room, hoping, praying that his dad had had more luck than him. But when he opened the door, John was already here, looking at Dean with tears in his eyes. _Tears_. John fucking Winchester was crying. And that only meant one thing. _No, no, no, no, no, no_. Sam wasn't dead. He wasn't. He couldn't be dead okay. It was just _impossible_ , a nightmare. If he could just shut out his dad then he never would have to hear those awful words. He was shaking his head, making the world a blur. Nothing was making sense anymore, _nothing_. But then his dad was here, invading his personal space, squeezing his arms firmly, bringing him back to the _here and now_ , forcing him to face the horror of the situation. He felt twelve years old again. His father spoke, and his words felt like a death sentence. Maybe that's exactly what it was, maybe Dean was dead too.

"Sammy's dead, son. He's not coming back."

 _Oh God, please, no_.

 _Sam's POV_

 _It was dark, it was cold, and his head hurt. Those were the first things that Sam thought as he remained consciousness. Hotel room beds weren't comfortable, okay, but he didn't remember any bed that felt like the floor. Then it all came flooding back to him. He felt like he was sleeping on the floor because it was the floor he was sleeping on. He remembered Detroit, the constant sensation that something was coming. The fear that never left him. The nightmares about blood, and fire, and yellow eyes. Him trying to convince Dean to leave, sounding like a scared five-year-old, and needing his brother to fix it somehow. Then he remembered the horror of being awakened by something in the night, the fight that followed, the helplessness, the look on his brother's face as he was taken away. Sam was in trouble, and really that was the understatement of the year- Hell, of the century. He regained his senses and looked around him. He was chained to a wall, with a chain long enough to allow him to move through the room but not beyond. The room was simple, no windows, and only one door. There was a sink, a toilet, and a single bulb on the ceiling, offering barely enough light to see._ _Then the door opened, and the yellow eyed creature came in. He watched Sam with calculating and hungry eyes, as if he had found an ultimate prize. Sam stood up as soon as he entered the room, a room that will be his cage for quite some time. Preparing himself for anything, trying to look pissed and not scared. Alert. Ready. A hunter. Then the monster spoke and Sam realized that it felt familiar, like a long forgotten dream. A nightmare. He was suddenly sure that he had already encountered this creature before._

" _My name is Azazel. This will be your home from now on. I will be your master, and you are mine."_

 _TBC…_

Don't worry next chapter you will see why John thinks Sam is dead. Please tell me what you thought of this chapter, I hope you liked it. Only reviews can tell me XD.


	3. Chapter 3

Summary: A teenchester story, AU, Dean 16, Sam 12. Another town, another school, all normal for the Winchesters, until the night everything changes, the night Sam got taken. Then all hell breaks loose.

Author's note: Sorry for posting this chapter a little bit later than planned. But for compensation, this one is way longer than the others.

Thanks to everyone who favorited, alerted this story. And of course a huge thanks for those of you who let me a comment, sorry for the ones that left reviews as guest I can't answer to you properly but I love that you took the time to comment. It's very much appreciated. I hope you will all enjoy this chapter. It has some serious hurtDean. While this chapter is full of hurt and no comfort, the comfort will come, eventually. What's the point in hurting the boys if I don't fix them with a hug later?

Warnings: Some cursing, some torture in some chapters, but nothing too graphic, and nothing sexual. But considering it's a "Sam is kidnapped" kind of story be warned that things will get hard for Sam. It will NOT be a death fic, just so we're clear. No slash either. Just brotherly love.

What makes us human

"Time does not heal, it buries"

 **Previously on What makes us human:**

His father spoke, and his words felt like a death sentence. Maybe that's exactly what it was, maybe Dean was dead too.

"Sammy's dead, son. He's not coming back."

 _Oh God, please, no_.

 **Now**

"You're wrong."

That was probably what it was, a mistake. His dad must have been mistaken. He couldn't have found Sammy's body. John must have it wrong.

"What happened?"

Dean didn't give a fuck if he sounded like he was giving his father an order. He needed to understand it. He needed it to make sense.

"I was interviewing the people in this town, just like you, when I… I got a call from Caleb. He said apparently there was some kind of sacrificial ritual done in the area. He'd heard a demon talk about it. And then there was a body at the morgue… A body of a young boy that was waiting to be identified. So I… I went."

"It's not Sam."

"I checked, I checked the body for any supernatural creature it could be. God, Dean I checked. It was Sam. Sammy's dead."

Sammy's name and the word "dead" had nothing to do in the same sentence. _Nothing_.

"Take me to the morgue. You're wrong dad, you're just wrong. Sam's not dead!"

"Dean, I managed to get the body out of the morgue, it's in the truck... Dean wait!"

Dean was already out, and running to the truck. He was going to make this right. Sam wasn't in that truck. He _wasn't_. Dean just had to prove to his dad that he was wrong. Maybe the body wasn't anything supernatural, okay, but that didn't make it Sam's body. He almost tore open the door to the trunk. There it was, under a grey blanket. Dean's heart was beating out of his chest. He just had to uncover the body and make his father see that this _wasn't_ Sammy.

 _Sammy._

It was Sammy.

 _Please, no, no, no. Please. Let me wake up, it's a nightmare. A nightmare, and I'm not here. I'm not really here._

Suddenly John was there, and Dean was sitting on the ground of the parking lot of their latest motel room, next to the truck, holding Sammy's body close to his chest. Losing it.

"It's gonna be okay Sammy, I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna take care of you. It's my job right? It's gonna be okay."

Later, John finally managed to convince Dean that they really needed to get the hell out of this parking lot, out of this town, before they attracted attention.

 _Dad always the practical one, right?_

Dean wouldn't let go of the body. He carried it inside the truck, and sat in the backseat with it. Sam sure had grown up, but at twelve years old he was still small enough for Dean to carry. And hell, Dean could have sworn that death made him even smaller. _Death. Sammy was dead_.

They just drove away. None of them uttering a single word. They'd never been men of words anyway. So John drove and tried not to look into his son's eyes. His remaining son. And tried not to think of his youngest son, who would never sit, _alive_ , in the backseat ever again. Who would never complain about always having to move. Who would never remind him of Mary ever again.

John needed to break the silence. "We…we have to burn his body."

"No."

Dean knew what that meant, what that implied. He knew that once they burned Sam's body it would be all over. It would mean moving on, and going on a revenge quest to kill the demon that had destroyed what was left of their family. Not that Dean was against killing the sonufabitch. No, it just wasn't enough. While revenge had a sweet taste, it wouldn't bring Sammy back. Once Sammy was burned, and the demon dead, then what? Was Dean supposed to _move on_? Were they supposed to keep going, saving people, hunting things? Maybe that was his father's plan. But it wasn't Dean's plan. He wasn't gonna let him do that. He wasn't going to let his dad burn his little brother. Out of the question. Fire, Dean didn't like the fire. He never had, not since he was four years old. Fire was too… definitive. Permanent. _Unfixable_. The hold he had on Sammy tightened.

"We'll bury him."

"Dean, it's… come on you know the drill, we gotta… we can't let him…" For the first time in years John Winchester seemed to have trouble getting his words out.

"We. Are. Not. Burning. Him." End of discussion.

Dean needed a body to bring his brother back. He was ready to fight his dad on this. Hell, he was ready to kidnap the…body… and protect it if need be. Even in death his number one rule still applied: _Protect Sammy_.

"Okay, okay."

It was so unlike John to give up. Losing a son put everything in perspective.

"Where we going anyway?"

Dean hadn't really been paying attention to his surroundings. No, he was too busy watching Sam. As if focus and will alone could make him alive once more.

"Bobby, we're going to Bobby's place. I've already called him. He knows."

Good. Dean liked Bobby. Sammy did too.

They finally arrived, and Bobby was there waiting for them. The look on his face said it all. Made it more real. His eyes screamed what Dean had tried to deny all the way over here. Dean flashed back to when he was four, and another tragedy had hit him. He never forgot the way people had looked at him. He never forgot how it made everything worse. No one had let him forget, not for a second. Every time he saw someone and looked up at them, their eyes screamed: "Your mommy is dead". And Dean couldn't take it any more than he could take it now. Now, here was Bobby, looking at him with eyes that held the same horror, with eyes that screamed "Sammy is dead". Eyes that were reflecting his own.

At some point either Bobby or his dad, Dean couldn't tell which, had tried to take Sammy away from him. But he wouldn't let go. Not yet. Probably never. Dean watched the men dig the grave, and knew he should have helped, but he didn't. He had dug many graves, but that one he couldn't do. So he just stared at them, and waited until it was over. He carefully laid his brother down there. Nothing screamed failure like having to let go of your brother down a hole.

Then it was over. Dean had nothing to hold onto anymore.

Bobby said a few kind words, even cried a little. He then went back inside his house.

Dean and John were left alone.

"We'll find something Dad. We always do. We'll bring him back."

Those words weren't exactly what Dean was trying to say, even if they were still true. Either way, John didn't seem to be there. Maybe Dean was a stupid kid for thinking it, but he felt almost certain that his Dad could still help him fix this somehow.

"I'll be back tomorrow, don't wait for me."

 _Don't leave me here alone dad, please. Stay. Stay with me_.

His silent plea went unanswered. John was already gone.

Dean sat on the ground watching this stupid grave. It didn't matter if he had to do this alone. It didn't matter. His dad could do what the hell he wanted. Dean wasn't giving up. He had Sam's back. _Always_. Dean closed his eyes and let the memory come upon him. One memory he cherished.

 _ **Flashback**_

 _November 1991_

He was twelve years old, and had screwed up big time. On that hunt he had gotten scared- scared and _pathetic_ , and the hesitation had almost cost him his life. So his dad was pissed. Well actually, he had been worried sick as he watched his son almost get torn up by a werewolf. It was the worry, followed by the sudden relief that had came out all wrong. It came out in the form of anger at his son, the son he was now shaking with an unbreakable grip on his arm, shaking him frantically, trying to get him to understand that all his actions had consequences- consequences that could be deadly. He didn't even realize that he was yelling. But then something happened, something that neither John nor Dean had anticipated. Sammy came. He came and pushed his father hard, much harder than any normal eight-year-old could. He was crushing his dad's arm and when he spoke, the words cut right through John's heart.

"You're hurting him, dad, LET GO! He's your son! You're not supposed to hurt him, please STOP! LET HIM GO!"

The words were almost screamed, and Sammy just wouldn't let go. He kept trying to get his dad away from Dean, and finally, because the words had at last registered trough John's mind, one final push was all it took. He looked down at Dean and saw the mark that _he_ had made on his arm. He was out of the motel room in a heartbeat. Alcohol was exactly what he needed. November had always been the hardest month.

Dean was looking dumbfounded at his little brother. His _little brother_. In that moment Sammy went from being protected to protector. And for the first time Dean realized that all was right in the world, because while he had Sam's back, Sam had _his_. Dean felt love like he hadn't in a very long time.

 _ **End of flashback**_

Dean wiped away the single tear that had managed to get past him like a little traitor. It had been a long time since he had hesitated to shoot a monster. He didn't make those kinds of mistakes now. No, because now when he screwed up, he had a little brother to bury.

"I'll make this right Sammy, I promise you. I'll fix it. I got your back. Always."

That night when Dean went to bed, he took his pendant off and put it safely into his bag. He made a promise, to himself and to Sam. He would not wear it again until he had brought back Sam from the dead. It was a promise he intended to keep.

"Goodnight Sammy."

Habits had a way of sticking, no matter what. Death didn't change everything after all.

One thing the Winchesters and Bobby and the rest of the _human_ world didn't know? It was that Sammy wasn't buried in Bobby's backyard. Someone, something, had _tricked_ them. Tricked them into seeing things that weren't _real_. They had indeed buried a young boy's body, maybe even a human body. They just hadn't buried Sam.

 _ **1998: three years later…**_

Time had passed, even when every hour had felt like a punch to the gut, every second like a knife through the heart. Time had still passed. Life went on.

 _Dean, help._

Fast breathing, sweaty palms, teary eyes, hearing those last words, that cry for help he couldn't answer to. Those things became Dean's normal wake up routine. Awful nightmares of his little brother being slaughtered for some demon ritual, became regular not long after he buried Sam. Dean didn't mind. At least the nightmares reminded him of his failure. He didn't deserve peaceful nights, not if Sam had his eyes forever closed.

Dean took his coffee, and read through the journal. Looking for demonic activities, _always_. That's all he did now. Hunting demon after demon, after demon. Desperate to find that one demon he really wanted. Torturing every single one of them. He had gotten good at it, scary good. He was probably one of the best demon hunter there ever was, but it still wasn't enough. He couldn't get any demon to talk about the yellow-eyed demon's location. He couldn't get any crossroad demons to _deal_. Yes, Dean had learned all about them. Those first few months after Sammy's death, he was looking for only one thing: bringing him back. That meant looking into every supernatural thing that was capable of doing something like that. Witches, fairies, reapers, and finally crossroad demons. Problem was? Nothing would do it. No matter how many demons he called, no one would deal. _No one_. They all said the same thing: if Sammy was brought back, then the ritual was revoked. All the demons were terrified of the yellow-eyed one. No demon dared defy him. At least it was what they all said.

And where was John in all of that? _Not here_.

They had separated about two years ago. For about a year, they managed to stick together. That had been a miracle, really. Dean remembered very clearly the last time he had spoken face to face with his dad.

 _ **Flashback  
**_ _1996_

John was tired of watching his son destroying himself. Tired of being helpless against it. Tired of life in general. Just _tired_. The final straw was finding out that Dean was trying to bring back Sammy by making a deal with a demon. John had lost it completely then. He would never tell his son, but he had himself tried that one: the very first night, after they had buried Sam. But he had failed, and the idea of Dean trying to do the same thing, the idea of Dean in hell, it was unbearable.

Dean knew that his dad was trying to survive through this. He also knew that he wasn't the only one in pain. Knowing all this didn't _help_. He was angry all the time, and his dad was the only one around to focus his anger at.

"You have to stop."

That was his father, always demanding, ordering. Once upon a time, Dean would have listened without question.

"Stop what?"

Dean, the perfect little soldier. He was nothing but rebellious now. He no longer listened to John.

"You know what. Don't play dumb with me. You can't bring him back. You can't!"

"No. _You_ can't. Cause you're not even _trying_."

The words were said with the purpose of infuriating John. Dean was looking for a fight. He always was these days.

"You have to let it go son. We can only try to avenge him now."

"Sam's my brother, I will never let him go. You hear me? Never!"

"Do you even hear yourself? Sam _is_ your brother? Sam's dead. You don't have a brother anymore Dean. You have to stop."

Suddenly, he was hitting his dad. He hadn't even realized he had moved until he was already upon him. Punches were flying out of him. He was on a mission. He needed to inflict pain. So he kept on hitting, and hitting, and hitting. His dad wasn't even defending himself. Maybe as much as Dean needed to hurt someone, maybe John needed to be hurt. At some point the punches lacked strength, determination. His knuckles were bloody. His dad's face too. But he didn't care. Not anymore. Empty people didn't care. He left his dad on the floor, took his bag, and made it to the door.

"Dean, please, I can't lose you too." Whispered words. John never pleaded, not for anything.

"You already have. You lost me the day we buried Sam."

He left the motel room without looking back.

 _ **End of flashback...**_

That had happened two years ago. A part of Dean wished that his dad had chased him and not let go.

It's not like they had stopped talking completely. They still called each other. Sometimes. Making sure the other one was still alive. Funny thing though, he talked more to Bobby than his own father. Bobby, who wouldn't let him go, who forced him to come and visit him, who compelled him to eat and sleep. Bobby, who was trying to bring him back from the edge, inch by inch. No matter how hard Dean tried to push him away, Bobby stayed. No matter how far away Dean tried to run, he found him. Dean wasn't used to a father figure that stuck around when shit hit the fan. Bobby wasn't letting him go. He put up with all his bullshits. Like the drinking. God- he was turning into his dad. What felt life a lifetime ago it was exactly what he wanted. Not anymore.

Alcohol was perfect. Dean had it under control, though. He never drank when he had a job. Not more than once a week. But when he did? He drank hard.

Three years without his little brother had _crushed_ him. Exactly three fucking years to the day. So yeah, alcohol was pretty much required.

Tequila shots. Tequila was what he needed. One, two, three, four… hell- _fifteen_ shots later, then finally, finally the numbness came. _Thank God_. The bartender looked like he was about to say something, but one look at Dean and the words died on his tongue. _Smart man_.

"You idjit."

 _Bobby_. Of course Bobby had found him. He must have looked at the date and come looking for Dean. Well too bad for the man, because Dean wasn't in the mood to be rescued. He just wanted to be left alone.

"I want you to listen carefully to me, son. You hear me? This has to stop. You gotta ask yourself what would Sammy think of you and this life if he was here. He ain't the only family you got. He's dead, kid. And he ain't coming back. You're drowning. Now get yourself together, and go see your dad. He needs you."

 _Where was he when I needed him? Where was he the night we bury Sammy? He left me there alone for two days._

At this point Bobby had his face close to Dean's. He took his chin in his hand and was looking right at him. He was among the few people on this earth that could really _see_ him. Bobby saw through the bullshits, and the jokes, and the chicks. He always saw Dean for what he really was- a kid that loved his family more than anything, more than _himself_. A single tear had escaped down his cheek. But all Dean could think was: _Sammy's not here. Sammy's not here_.

"Dammit you idjit, you wanna get yourself killed?"

 _Yes_.

Yes, he wanted to. But only after killing the demon that had killed his brother. And only if he couldn't bring Sammy back. See, Dean Winchester had a plan. No demon wanted to deal because they were all too afraid to face the demon that had done the ritual. So if Dean killed the fucker then, surely, _surely_ some black-eyed bitch would deal with him. And if not? Well, a simple bullet to his dead and he would be reunited with Sam.

"If I die, wouldja bury me next to him please? Don't want no flames."

So what if he was drunk, and totally being stupid by talking to Bobby about all of that. He figured he had the right. Bobby was pissed. No, he was furious. If throwing Dean's tequila shot out of his hand, than shoving him along out of the bar was any indication. Maybe he would kick his ass. That would be good. Maybe that would take the other pain, the greater pain, away.

"Ya know you're a lot of things Dean Winchester, but I never figured you to be a selfish coward. I ain't burying you. I ain't burying anyone else."

Maybe in some other time, in some alternative universe, just maybe he would have gotten mad at the guy. Maybe he would have even pushed him back, and tried to defend himself. Maybe he would have hit him just like he'd done his own father, and left him. Not anymore. Empty shells didn't feel anything: not offend, not anger, not _grief_.

"Yeah, I'm selfish. Think I give a fuck?"

"How stupid do you think _I am_? You trying to make me believe in all that I don't care attitude? Yeah, right, I'm actually gonna believe that, when you have to drink yourself into oblivion just to stop feeling, just for a little while."

Bobby was many things. But stupid? _Definitively_ not on that list. Dean knew he was right. Bobby was often right, if not always. Yes, Dean was drowning. Yes, it was on purpose. But Dean thought that maybe if he'd drowned himself deep enough, maybe he'd find Sam. Sam- who was also down there _, buried_. Yes, he was many things. One thing he wasn't anymore? A _Big brother_. Or was he? No one had ever said anything about it. Were you still a brother if your brother, your only brother, was dead? Did death imply a revocation of the title?

The thing was, that even though Dean had never said it out loud, he had always loved his brother. Sometimes loved him like a mother loves her child. Sometimes like a father does his son. Sometimes like a best friend. And pretty much always and forever, like a brother. So when you've loved someone so much practically your whole life, what happens when that person died? Where did all that love go? He had a hole in his heart, a hole that matched perfectly the size of a little brother. Sam's absence was like a shadow, following him everywhere, taunting him relentlessly. Dean was tired of waking up to Sammy's desperate cry for help.

The only way he knew of that could take away all this pain, all this rage, all this helplessness, was to drink. When he drank he could forget- not completely, no- but for a little while, he could actually forget. But then, God, the aftermath was awful. Waking up after a night of drinking, at first not fully knowing where he was, then he'd suddenly remember it all, remembering _why_ he had to drink in the first place. Hell, it was as much stupid as it was worth it, because for those brief moments, he'd feel like he could breathe again, feel nothing but the alcohol swimming through his veins. Nothing else at all. And the truth was, nothingness had a sweet, sweet taste.

He wondered if death would taste this sweet.

Bobby was helping him stagger to his room. "Come on now, let's put you to bed okay? You look like shit, kid"

He felt like it too.

"We'll talk in the morning. You get some sleep. I'll watch out."

Dean didn't find the strength to tell the man that none of that was necessary, that he wasn't worth watching over anymore. Sleep had already claimed him.

 _Dean, help._

Dean was wide awake and rushed to the bathroom, well reconciled to the fact that alcohol didn't always prevent the nightmares. All that tequila had to come up at some point, right?

Three years without Sam. Three years that felt like an eternity. What Dean didn't know was that in a few short days, he wouldn't be without Sam anymore.

TBC…

So? Hope you liked it. I sure as hell enjoyed writing it. Please leave me a comment to tell me XD. Next chapter will be entirely dedicated to Sam in captivity during those three years.


	4. Chapter 4

Summary: A teenchester story, AU, Dean 16, Sam 12. Another town, another school, all normal for the Winchesters, until the night everything changes, the night Sam got taken. Then all hell breaks loose.

Author's note: Here is chapter 4, that one is longer than the others again. I almost decided to cut it into two parts then changed my mind. I hope you won't mind his length. This is entirely Sam's POV. So much Hurt Sam in this one. I hope it wasn't too much angst. Let me know what you thought of it.

Warnings: Here is the chapter with almost all of the torture, it's nothing too graphic but it is there. Also it contains some spoilers all the way to season 8, some important stuff and also just some little details, just so you know. A very important warning; it contains the death of someone, NO ONE from the show but still, it could be upsetting for some, so read with caution.

What makes us human

"There is a freedom in death that only death can give"

 **Previously on What makes us human (from chapter 2):**

 _Sam stood up as soon as he entered the room, a room that will be his cage for quite some time. Preparing himself for anything, trying to look pissed and not scared. Alert. Ready. A hunter. Then the monster spoke and Sam realized that it felt familiar, like a long forgotten dream. A nightmare. He was suddenly sure that he had already encountered this creature before._

" _My name is Azazel. This will be your home from now on. I will be your master, and you are mine."_

 **Now**

Sam's POV

Sam had not had time to think about all this ownership crap that _Azazel_ was talking about when two men- no, not men- two _somethings_ , came in the room. Adrenaline shot through his veins, he knew he wasn't going to go down without a fight. No way in hell! The first man that approached was tall- really tall, with solid muscles, intimidating bulk. That was fine, because Dean had taught him how to fight opponents twice his size, and he hadn't the disadvantage of being taken by surprise during the night _this time_. When monster number one came at him and reached out to him menacingly, Sam was ready. He twisted the thing's arm, twisted it _hard_ , and the crack that was heard right after was very satisfying. It was time to show them that they hadn't messed with just any kid. They had messed with a Winchester. Monster number one was pissed, pissed and in pain. _Good_. Sam didn't give him time to recover. He punched him in the ribs, one, two, three, four times. He didn't stop.

" _If you manage to hit the first time it's great, but it doesn't mean it's over. You don't stop until they're unconscious on the floor, ya hear me? You don't ever give those fuckers time to hurt you."_

 _Dean_

Sam had never listened to Dean's advice about girls, because it was _Dean_ , but when it came to fighting, Sam had paid close attention. He tried to shut down his brain and let his body take control, but he couldn't help noticing that the other man or creature wasn't attacking him also. Like he was waiting. The yellow eyed creature stood by the door, watching him intensely, judging him. So Sam knew that this was a test. This Azazel monster was _testing_ him.

Apparently it was time for monster number two to attack. That one seemed less stupid. When Sam tried to knee him in the groin, the monster yanked the chain he was attached to, the traitor, making him loose his balance. Once he was on the ground things got more complicated. Monster number two sure knew how to punch. Sam tried his best to give back as much as he received, but it was hard, especially since they were two against him now. It wasn't like this was the first time he'd taken a beating, but that didn't make it hurt less. One good thing at least? They weren't hitting his head, so they probably weren't trying to kill him. But monster number one got his revenge when he broke a few of Sam's ribs _and_ his arm. Sam couldn't help the little groan of pain that escaped him.

"That's enough for now."

Yellow eyed monster. Azazel, obviously the head of this little operation. He stepped inside the room and his two puppets took a step back. Sam found he had a little trouble breathing, broken ribs having a tendency to make things much more difficult. Still, he knew he had to get up. He had to. Whatever this Azazel wanted, whatever his plans were, Sam was going to take it, and Sam was getting out of here alive. Sam was going to face him.

"I knew you were perfect. Since that first night, I knew it was gonna be you."

"What do you want?"

Azazel was smiling now, his eyes sparkling this awful yellow color. Sam wanted to gouge those eyes out. Yes, getting kidnapped in the middle of the night, chained to a wall, then beaten up had a way of making him a little _angry_.

"What I want? I already have what I want."

With that they all left the room, and Sam was left alone. He sat against the wall, trying to catch his breath, trying to calm his heart. Calmness and control were everything in a situation like this. He had to stay calm, keep it together. He could do that. He could. He didn't exactly have a choice there. This little welcome party had given Sam a lot of information, such as the fact that they wanted him alive, which was excellent news for him. The fact that Azazel had had this planned, apparently for some time, gave Sam confidence that his first feeling was right: they had met in the past. He just didn't know when or why or what had actually happened.

It was going to be okay, though. Dean and his dad were searching for him. It was all going to be okay. Sam was getting out of here. There was one thing his family excelled at, and it was hunting down monsters. Good thing Sam was surrounded by them.

Dean and his dad were coming. Sam was absolutely sure they were.

No one bothered Sam for some time, probably some days judging the rate his ribs were recovering. They slipped him some food and water through a trap in the door. Sam considered not taking it at first, but he needed the strength. Whatever they had in store for him, it couldn't be good, and an empty stomach wasn't going to be helpful. The first hours Sam tried to stay awake, he didn't want to be taken by surprise. Except he was tired, and hurt, and after struggling as much as he could, sleep finally won.

They decided to show up after what felt like a few days. The door opened and suddenly Sam was surrounded by a punch of people with black eyes. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit_. So, demons. _A lot_ of demons. Was the yellow-eyed thing a demon, too?

Fighting back wasn't of any use this time. They were just too many. Sam heard the sound of his chain being removed, and found he was being dragged away from the room. Maybe his cage wasn't on his list of favorite places, but still, he had grown familiar with it. Outside? Sam didn't know what was outside. And whatever it was, he knew it wasn't going to be good. So he fought hard, even if it was useless. He fought harder than he ever had in his entire life. They took him somewhere downstairs.

 _Why, why did the ugly stuff always have to be downstairs_?

He was being tied down to a table. Arms and feet trapped. He was _so_ screwed.

"How do you like the place so far?"

Azazel. He was back, and all the demons left the room.

Sam figured that he was going to be here for the fun stuff. But he wasn't going to play his game.

"Stubborn huh? I like that. It's not funny if you give in to me already."

Azazel had a pair of scissors in his hand and was cutting Sam's t-shirt. The fabric was torn up in a few seconds. Sam lied there, shirtless with some demon- or rather something that was probably a demon- smiling down at him.

"What do you want?"

He was scared, screw the silent treatment. He was twelve, and starting to be aware of his body, and he was shy about nudity, Dean had made enough fun about it. And maybe he was being stupid, but really there was something _uncomfortable_ about being half naked, tied to a table, on display in front of a demon.

"I just want some fun boy, don't worry. When I'm finished with you, you will be as good as new".

"What…"

Sam didn't have time to ask him what the hell he meant by that, because Azazel was close to him and put a hand on his forehead.

Hell. This was hell. It had to be. Someone was trying to tear open his brain. It felt like a hundred knives were piercing through his skull. The pain was excruciating, nothing like he had ever experienced before. What the hell was this demon doing?

Sam was yelling, and crying, begging him to please just stop, his pride long gone. Azazel, well, Azazel looked frustrated. He took his hands off Sam.

"It's not working"

Really, it wasn't working? Because it sure as hell seemed to be working to Sam. That is, unless inflecting pain wasn't the primary purpose of that touching forehead crap.

"I can't get inside your mind."

He couldn't _what_?

"You're immune to that, too."

 _Too?_

What else was he immune to? Sam was thinking really hard now, trying to remember. That night. The night he got taken, he had been surprised when the demon had been able to effortlessly slam Dean into a wall but then had struggled to get Sam. It made sense now. Sam was somehow immune to the demon's powers. He didn't know if he should be glad or cry. Why was he immune to it? What the hell was wrong with him?

Azazel looked unpleased about the immunity thing. Yet at the same time he seemed to be thrilled about it. As if he had found what he was looking for, as if Sam was finally _it_.

"Okay, let's do this again, this time try to open your mind to me."

Fuck, Sam hadn't even realized that he'd been doing something to prevent the mind penetration thing. And knowing now what the pain was like didn't help him at all when Azazel's hand came back on his forehead. He tried to think about something else, he really did. But pain was all he could think of, pain was all he felt, all he was. The pain didn't leave him for hours.

He was back in his cage.

 _Being as good as new. My ass_.

He was going to be sick. His head was killing him.

 _It's okay, just breathe, they're coming, they're coming._

Except they didn't come. Not when the demon tried to find a way into his mind, not when other demons came and beat the hell out of him, not when he called for them. They just weren't _here_. But Sam wasn't losing faith, not yet. His family just needed more time to find him. It was just more difficult than Sam had imagined. His dad always had a plan. Always. He wasn't giving up on them, because he knew that they would never give up on him.

Sam just needed them to hurry.

Later, Sam was back to that table again. With Azazel. He was never going to look at tables the same, not ever.

"Your dad ever tell you the story of the night your momma died?"

No, no he'd never told him, not entirely. He had the big lines, but it had been Dean that had told him, not his dad. Dean had said never to ask their dad, and even if Sam didn't like to be told what he could do or say, he had obeyed that order. Something about his brother's tone had warned him that this subject was forbidden.

"She was a really pretty thing, your mommy. Really pretty. I almost felt bad when I had to burn her on that ceiling. But she was stupid. She never should have interfered."

"You're lying."

Demons lie. This was Demonology 101. Demons _always_ lie.

"'Course I'm lying. That's why when you saw me in your cage you immediately recognized me. Cause I'm lying."

Sam wasn't going to let him screw with his mind. Except this felt like the truth. Usually, Sam was good at detecting when he was being lied to. This just didn't feel like a lie.

"See, your mom made a deal, years before you were born. She pretty much gave you to me, understand. Not that she had a choice. It was destiny. You believe in destiny, don't you kid?"

Yes. No. He didn't know. Not anymore. He was listening carefully to Azazel's words. He couldn't do anything else but listen.

"You were meant to be born. You were meant to be _mine_. Mary may have given birth to you, but I'm the one who created you, made you what you are."

 _What_ he was? He was a _who_ , not a what, right? What the hell was he talking about?

"My blood, Sammy boy, my blood is _in_ you. The night I killed her, I made you mine by feeding you my blood. You've always felt it, haven't you? You've always felt different. Impure. Tainted. You knew, Sammy. You knew. And all those special things you could do? Surely you had to know that you weren't normal?"

 _I have demon's blood inside me. I have demon's blood inside me._

 _No, no, no, no._

It wasn't true, it couldn't be true. But it was. Like Azazel had said, he _knew_. It was all true. He'd always felt different, like something wasn't right with him. And the things he could do, he'd always tried to deny it. There were crazy things that he knew, like once when they were hunting a witch. They had talked to people in town, and every time Sam had passed by one house in particular, he had felt it: felt the uncommon power emanating from the house. He'd felt the power that came from the witch living inside, a power that called to him. They had hunted and killed the witch, but it wasn't the only time that Sam had known where a monster was without doing any research. Every single time it had happened, he'd never said a word. Because deep down, he knew that this was something supernatural inside him. This was something that took away a big chunk of the normalcy he'd always wanted so badly.

He was a freak. He was a freak with demon's blood inside him.

"I brought you here to prepare you. I can make you more powerful than you already are. I have so many things to teach you Sammy. So many things."

"Fuck you! I'm not yours, and I don't give a shit about your blood. I will never be yours. You hear me? I will never be yours!"

"Oh but you are. You can fight it all you want, I'm even counting on it. But you're still mine. And when the time comes, you will say yes. You'll say yes to _him_."

"Say yes? What the fuck are you talking about? Who do you think I'll say yes to?"

"I'm going to give you something so you'll remember who you belong to, always."

Azazel was whispering something, words that Sam didn't understand. He was speaking in a language that he didn't know. Sam was panicking, because whatever he was doing, it was bad. It was always bad. The demon then cut his own wrist and drew a symbol on Sam's chest with his blood, next to Sam's heart. A complicated symbol that he had never seen before. Azazel was speaking again, and Sam suddenly felt a sharp, burning pain on his chest, right where the symbol was. Sam screamed, and tried to get off the table, but he couldn't. He had already tried many times to get free. Then the pain was gone, and Sam felt weird. Not himself. The symbol was now and forever carved into his flesh.

"Never forget. You are mine" Azazel whispered in his ear before leaving him alone.

He didn't know how long he had been in this place, held captive. He just knew that it had been a really, _really_ long time. Probably years. It was difficult to keep track of the passing of days, weeks, months when you were locked in a room without windows. At first he had tried to estimate, from the moment he had first awakened in this place, he had tried. Gaging how often he was tired or hungry, he'd try to estimate the days that went by. But after a while it was just impossible. When they came and took him downstairs, he'd lose consciousness, sometimes for days. He was tired all the time, hungry all the time. Time didn't matter here. Nothing mattered here. Pain was all he knew. After all this time, pain was even welcomed, _sometimes_. Because it made him feel alive. It made him feel human again. Pain became his anchor to the world. Even when it was unbearable, the pain meant that he wasn't giving up. Not completely. He may have gotten used to the idea of never seeing his family ever again, but he was never going to say yes. Never. It didn't matter what Azazel had planned for him, he would never be on his side, even if he didn't know what he wanted him to say yes to.

That will, that stubbornness, that choice that no one could take away from him- those were the last things that he had. And he wasn't letting go. Never.

He wanted to go home. To most people, home was a place: some nice house with a nice white fence, a nice bed, a nice _everything_. That was the kind of home that Sam had dreamed about, even longed for. Captivity had a way of changing people. Now all Sam wanted was to go home, the only home he knew. And home to him meant the people he loved: Dean, Dad. Home meant a special car, the one he grew up in, the one that they'd made theirs when they'd carved their initials in. Home was the I _mpala_.

But Sam knew that he was never returning home. He was forever lost. His family thought he was dead, Azazel had been all too happy to tell him. Like this was the funniest thing ever. He said someone, something, had made them believe that they had buried his body.

Sam was dead to them. Or maybe he was dead, _period_. They were never going to find him, rescue him. They weren't coming.

Sam missed them. God he missed them so much. He screamed for them sometimes. When the pain got to be too much. When he couldn't hold back the names of the people he craved for. He screamed for Dean mostly, because he knew that no matter what, Dean always came for him. He screamed for his dad sometimes, too. In this place, resentment had long deserted him. Once he even screamed for his mom, that elusive concept of tenderness and love. He could even have sworn in that moment that he heard his name being called back.

He said their names also, before sleeping. Every time. He repeated the names of his loved ones. Over and over and over again: Dean, John, Mary, Bobby, Pastor Jim…

He cherished all the names of the people that had ever mattered in his life, and he wouldn't let himself forget them. He had to hold onto their names.

The torture. The torture was probably going to make him loose his mind. Azazel sure seemed to enjoy it. He was always the perpetrator. Sam couldn't remember what it felt like to have a back that wasn't bloody. The whip. He dreamed about getting it from the fucker's hand to try it on him, to see if Azazel still thought it was funny when it was lashed on his own back. Azazel was still trying to get inside his mind, often, and every time he did, Sam would wish he was dead. Azazel sure had a lot of imagination when it came to torture. Sam tried hard not to think too much about it.

Then there was the training. Because while Azazel wanted to _break_ him, he also wanted to train him, prepare him. For what? He never said. Training was different here, nothing like what he did with Dean under his father's command.

Training here meant having to fight off a bunch of creatures. Azazel had sent them to his cage, and Sam had had to fight them off while chained to a wall. He had gotten good at it. His dad would have been _so_ proud. He was a better hunter now: faster, stronger, _ruthless_. Sam had no more boundaries when it came to fighting. He fought hard, he fought dirty. He had never wanted to shot himself in the head so strongly before, because he wasn't Sam anymore. He didn't know who or what he was, but Sammy was long gone. He might have been a better hunter, yes, except now he seemed to be resembling more and more like the things they hunted. He'd become one of _them_.

When he'd finally understood that no one was coming for him, he had tried to let himself die by not drinking and eating. But Azazel wouldn't let him. When he tried to starve himself to death, the yellow eyed demon had brought a man into the table's room downstairs. He'd tortured the man in front of Sam for hours then had killed him. Sam had never tried to starve himself after that, not ever again.

He had done similar things when Sam lost the fights during the training, so Sam had learned to never lose again... almost.

Finally there was the blood. The _demon_ 's blood. Sam was asked to drink from Azazel's wrist very shortly after he had learned that he was tainted. Sam said no. He said no the first time, and all of the times after that. Problem was? No was not an option. He was forced to drink it anyway. Sam hated the taste, hated it more than anything else. He didn't know why the demon always _asked_ him first if he wanted it before shoving it down his throat. Sam thought that maybe the effects were different if it was taken willingly. Not that there wasn't any effects anyway. Azazel hadn't lied about the powers. Sam had nightmares- nightmares that were so real all the time. He always had them after the blood drinking, so he knew that they weren't _just_ nightmares. There were visions- visions about people that Sam couldn't save.

This was his life now. All of it. The sad thing was that he was used to it by now. And it wasn't like things could get worse.

But he was wrong.

When Sam opened his eyes one day, a little girl was in his cage. That one was new. She was the first human to ever enter his cage, besides him. He knew instantly that she was human. He was powerful enough to just sense it from across the room. She was human, and couldn't have been more than ten, and crying. He had to do something, knew it was his responsibility. He hadn't lost all of his humanity. Not yet, at least not to the point where he'd no longer care for a girl crying.

"Hey, kid, it's alright, I'm not a bad guy, I'm a kid too. My name's Sam, what's yours?"

The little girl turned around and faced him, and he saw only big, brown, teary eyes. He would have had recognized that look among thousands of others, it was the look he had worn since the first day he got here, God knew how long ago. It was the look that was still with him even now. Terrified, sad, questioning, desperate. _Haunted_. The kind of look that begged to be taken home. But Sam knew that home was not an option. Not for him, and apparently now, not for this little girl either.

"I'm Lily."

At least she was answering him, which was good.

"How old are you Lily?"

His voice was so hoarse. He'd barely ever used it anymore, except for the screaming. He had almost forgotten what it was like to have a conversation.

"Seven, 'm seven."

Maybe in another world he would have been shocked to hear how young she was. Maybe, if the world wasn't full of shit. If demons didn't exist. _If... if_. But the world was what it was, and Sam couldn't do a damn thing to make it better.

"Is the bad man gonna kill me?"

 _Yes, either that or hurt you. He'll probably make you bleed first_. Crap, he didn't know exactly what to say here.

"I'll try and protect you, okay? He doesn't come in here every day. Maybe today he won't. It's gonna be okay."

Yeah, like that wasn't a lie.

The little girl, Lily, stayed with him. He didn't know how long, as she mysteriously didn't remember the date, or the year they were in. _Thank you Azazel_. At first she kept calling for her mom, and her dad, and sometimes for her older brother. Maybe the demon had a thing for younger siblings. Sammy tried his best to take care of her, despite the circumstances. He made her tell him all about her family, so she could forget for a moment where she was, and so he could forget too. He learned all about Clara- her sweet mom who could play the piano and who brushed her hair better than anyone, about her dad, Simon- who could push her on a swing like no one else, and about Matthew, her annoying older brother- who stole her dolls and pulled her hair, but who loved her still, and was pretty awesome sometimes, _just don't tell him_. Sam hung onto the stories of that little girl like some hold onto the air to breathe. She was his connection to the outside world. She was that lost part of childhood that he'd left behind so long ago. But what she really was, was _temporary_. Because Azazel walked back in the cage, with a clock in his hands. Sam hid the kid behind his back.

"So, here's the thing, Sammy boy, you've got a choice to make. If you don't kill the little sweetheart over there within one hour, I will come back with her entire family, murder them in front of you two, then kill that little one anyway. _You_ kill her, and she's the only one that says "Bye, bye." Her entire family's safe, and all that crap. Clock's ticking."

He left the room, left the clock on the floor, and shut the door.

Sam could barely breathe. What kind of a fucking _choice_ was that? He had to come up with a plan- a genius plan. Something, anything. Goddammit he couldn't just stay here and do… that. Not that. Monsters he could kill, hell he'd had kill so many by now. But never a human. Never a _little girl_.

While his thoughts were running so fast, he felt a little hand tucking at his sleeve. He looked down and prepared himself for what he was about to hear.

"It's okay Sammy, it's okay, I don't want my family to die. _P_ _lease_ , you'll have to do it. Promise me."

Shit. Okay, that wasn't what he was expecting. Not that he knew what he'd been expecting, but hell, not that. She was seven fucking years old. She shouldn't be saying stuff like that. She shouldn't understand what the word sacrifice meant. She shouldn't have to experience it first-hand.

"I want you to do it."

Since when had breathing become so impossible? He couldn't do it. She was a kid, just a kid. To take the life of a human being, of a little girl, it was just _unthinkable_. Except he didn't have a choice, because she was condemned anyway. She was dead the moment she'd set foot in this cage. He could only make sure that there wasn't any more casualties. He knew by now that Azazel kept his promise. _Always_. Now came the practical thing: he was in a room with no weapon, that is, no weapon except his hands. His _hands_. He had to snap her neck. The whole thing was surreal. He pressed himself against the wall and fell on the floor. He couldn't even look her in the eyes.

"Sammy, will brush my hair before..., before… you know?"

 _Yes, yes to everything._ She could ask him anything right now, and he'd do it. Except save her. He couldn't _save her_. She sat next to him, head on his leg, closed her eyes, and he brushed the little girl hair with his fingers. Blond hair, just like…

"Tell me your best memory."

Best memory? Was there such a thing as best memory, still? Was there anything good that he remembered? Was there anything good this place hadn't swallowed whole and crushed with its darkness? Maybe there was.

"I was five, and me and my brother we were alone in a motel room, waiting for our dad. There was this big, badass storm that raged through the night, and I was afraid. I didn't tell my big brother that I was scared out of my mind, but I was, and he knew it."

Dean always knew. God, he will never see his brother's face again. Remembering hurt like hell.

"So he built a safe haven out of blankets and our bed."

The thing was ridiculous, Sam remembered, barely holding up. But it had felt safe- safe and perfect and magical. It was _so Dean_ to do a thing like that.

"We stayed under it for the night, playing with flashlights, telling each other secrets."

Just being kids. Maybe it wasn't his best memory, he never really thought of it, but it was definitively a night he recalled, a _good night_.

Time passed, and that one hour was almost expired.

"Thanks Sammy, I think I would have liked your brother."

"Yeah he's great, really great."

"You are too." What was there to say to that?

Sam closed his eyes shut, and did what he had to. It was quick, not painful. God he prayed it wasn't painful. When it was over he was crying. Not silent, small tears. No, he was full on crying, sobs coming out of his chest. Holding onto a little girl's body, _lifeless_. He was a murderer now. He wondered for a moment if there was a special place in hell for kids who murdered kids without meaning to. Not that he minded going to hell. Hell was what he deserved. Hell was where he belonged now.

 _Boys don't cry._ But what about monsters? No one ever said anything about monsters and _tears_ , monsters and _regrets_. Monsters and _grief_.

Azazel was back. Perfect timing.

"See, now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Just like that Sam had lost his last shred of innocence.

 _Something's different_. It was the first thing that came to Sam's mind as he awoke. Five seconds later, he was up, breathing rapidly, painfully, freaking out.

 _Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god_.

He wasn't in the cage. He. Wasn't. In. The. Fucking. Cage. He was actually sleeping in a bed. In a room that felt familiar.

 _What the hell?_

It couldn't be real, it just couldn't. He was probably dreaming. Just a dream. It wasn't like he never dreamed of being free. He'd dreamed a million times and more about being with his family again. Being Sammy again. Somehow he'd always known that it was just that: a dream. This was different. This felt _real_. Something else was different: he wasn't in pain. In all his time in that cage there always had been a constant. And it was pain. He always hurt. _Always_. Whether it was his back, wrist, legs, shoulders, arms, or head, something was always hurting. Azazel had made sure of it. But now it was all gone. He looked at his wrists and nothing. There was not a mark on them. He'd spent years chained, it should have left a mark. He checked the rest of his body. _Nothing_. He was racing to the bathroom, ripping off his torn-up t-shirt. His back should have been a mess, instead it was flawless, as if he had never spent years being tortured. He looked at his chest. One thing remained. One mark. After all, Azazel had promised him that he was his, forever. That mark was to be a reminder of who he belonged to.

 _Never forget. You are mine_.

Sam needed to think. How had he gotten out of that room? How come he was as good as new? And, more importantly, _who_ or _what_ , had done this?

One thought kept trying to insinuate itself in his mind. One thought he was almost too afraid to believe, the one thing he'd prayed for, _begged_ for:

 _He was free_.

TBC…

So? Good? Bad? Let me know if you liked this chapter or not. Reviews make me write faster I swear.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Here's chapter five. I am so, so sorry for posting it so late. I was supposed to update weeks ago but life got in the way :(

Anyway, very important news: Vampyvii kindly offered to beta read this story after I told her I was looking for a beta. She corrected all the chapters before this one as well as this chapter. It's not exactly a necessity to reread them since there was no change of plot, she mainly corrected punctuation, grammars errors, and added a few words and beautiful sentences here and there. I, personally, love the result. A huge thanks to her for the great job she did XD.

I hope this chapter will please you all. Thanks to all of you who reviewed my story, favorited it or are following it. I love hearing from you.

Special Warning for this chapter: DON'T READ the following warning if you don't like being spoiled (even if it's a minor spoiler), but read it if you like knowing exactly what you're getting into when you read a story: in this chapter there will be a small scene with self harm mentioned, it's not really detailed, or gore or anything, but it is there, so you are being warned, I wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable with a subject that could be sensitive to some people.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. I make no money from this.

What makes us human

"You may not remember the time you let me go first.  
Or the time you dropped back to tell me it wasn't that far to go.  
Or the time you waited at the crossroads for me to catch up.  
You may not remember any of those, but I do and this is what I have to say to you:  
Today, no matter what it takes,  
we ride home together."  
― Brian Andreas

 **Previously on What makes us human:**

He was racing to the bathroom, ripping off his torn-up t-shirt. His back should have been a mess, instead it was flawless, as if he had never spent years being tortured. He looked at his chest. One thing remained. One mark. After all, Azazel had promised him that he was his, forever. That mark was to be a reminder of who he belonged to.

 _Never forget. You are mine_.

Sam needed to think. How had he gotten out of that room? How come he was as good as new? And, more importantly, _who_ or _what_ , had done this?

One thought kept trying to insinuate itself in his mind. One thought he was almost too afraid to believe, the one thing he'd prayed for, _begged_ for:

 _He was free_.

 **Now**

Sam's POV

He was free. Sam Winchester was fucking free. He needed to be smart about this. He needed to think, because this could be a trick. This could be a fucking trick from Azazel. He could be waiting for Sam right outside the door, ready to barge in laughing at Sam. Laugh at poor little Sammy who thought he could get away. Sam couldn't take that. So he focused. He just had to take in the elements of his surroundings, close his eyes and open his mind. He could tell that there was no demons or any other supernatural beings in this room or outside. He was that much of a freak now to sense things like that.

There was also the fact that he was entirely healed, or rather almost entirely. This was something that Azazel couldn't have done. Sure, he had been able in the past to help heal faster certain injuries that could have otherwise killed Sam, but never to this extend. The yellow eyed demon had never been able to erase the scars. Sam could tell that another creature had done this healing thing. This was obviously the work of a creature that Sam didn't recognize by scent, one he had never encountered before.

This room felt familiar. All motel rooms were similar, that was true, yet there was something about this one that spoke to Sam- something that was engraved in Sam's mind. He searched through the room, and found a paper next to the dresser by the bed. A note. A single piece of white paper, with words written carefully on it in beautiful handwriting. With three single words:

Please forgive me

 _What the hell?_

Sam didn't know what this was. Something got him out of his cage, healed him, then left a note of apology next to the bed. It didn't make any sense. It wasn't like Sam wasn't used to things not making sense, still, this was confusing. And really, wondering about _what_ had gotten him out prevented him from thinking about other stuff: like the fact that _he was_ out.

He was free, yes, but it was too late. About years too late. What was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to just find a phone, dial his father or brother's number and say: "Hi guys, it's Sam. You know, the one you buried. Yeah, turns out I'm _so_ not dead. Also, could you come and pick me up?"

He couldn't do that. He had no right to call them, to see them, to hug them and never let go. No matter how much he wanted to. Monsters didn't get that. Monsters didn't deserve anything. And a monster he was. There was no denying it, no fighting it. Sam Winchester was a monster. Even if he didn't want to be one, it was too late for him. Hell, was that hard, because he had dreamed about being reunited with his family for so, _so_ long. How could he face them again, after _everything_. Sam had seen too many things, endured too many things. _Done_ too many things. It was too late.

He held back some tears. He didn't get to cry, not anymore. Not since… Lily. He didn't get to cry. He had lost his family. His family had lost him. They had buried him, mourned him. Sam knew that it must have been hard on them- hell, it must have been awful. At least, he had died a human to them. Sam wasn't about to shatter their world just because he had missed them so damn much. It wasn't fair to them. Staying away would be the right thing to do. Also, he probably had Azazel on his ass, looking everywhere for him. Being near Sam was dangerous. Being near him only brought death and desolation.

So why, why did Sam feel like this was all bullshit? Because he was a selfish little bastard who couldn't even forget about his own need to be with his family just to protect them. Sam felt he was losing his mind. He was being torn apart between the urge to call them and the urge to flee. The urge to do everyone a favor and shoot himself in the head and the urge to just see Dean.

 _God Dean._

Dean could make everything okay again- or maybe not okay, just _bearable_. Sam felt like a five-year-old, hoping for his big brother to come and save the day. Maybe if he shut his eyes tight enough, he could go back to that age again, go back to being a little boy who didn't know about monsters of the night, about demon's blood. A little boy far back in the distance who had not a clue that the future held nothing but despair and torture and death for him. A little boy who only needed Dean and no one else.

Sam knew that this little boy was dead. There was no going back, not for him.

 _Where was he? What was the date?_

Those were questions that Sam needed answered. First he had to get his hands on a weapon- any weapon, just in case. He went for the kitchen. Knives. A kitchen's knife would do. Frankly, in Sam's position, pretty much anything would do.

There, on the table. Something caught Sam's eyes. Not a kitchen's knife- no, it was a newspaper. Today's newspaper.

 _December 6th 1998._

Three years and two days. Sam had been gone for exactly three years and two fucking days. God, it felt so much longer. Sam felt so much older. He couldn't be just fifteen. He was a teenager, but only if you counted the time that had passed by the years and not by the damage inflicted on the soul, or by the quantity of blood on someone's hands. If time was only measured by the number of days that flowed, then Sam was still a kid- an innocent, salvageable kid. Except the world didn't work like that. Nothing was ever that simple. No innocence remained in Sam, or childhood fancy, or hope, or joy. Nothing good was left.

Something else caught Sam's eyes on the newspaper, a local newspaper from…

 _Detroit, Michigan_.

Of course. Of course Sam was back here, in Detroit, where everything had started.

The motel room. There was a reason it felt familiar. It was because he had already been there. The night he had lost everything and everyone. There were probably hundreds of motel rooms in Detroit, somehow Sam was sure that he had ended up in the same one. Someone had done this on purpose. Bringing him here, leaving him a note along with a newspaper. This was all part of a plan.

This was too much. Way too much to take in. Why couldn't life be easy for one fucking second?

A headache, one hurtful headache came out of nowhere and hit Sam. His palms were suddenly sweaty. There were tears in his eyes. Sam couldn't focus on the room anymore. He knew the signs. He was having a vision. Of course he would be having a vision _now_. If he hadn't felt as if something was trying to tear open his brain, he would probably have laughed about the whole thing. Because really, he didn't need a vision on top of everything else. Yet here he was anyway, having one. One that hurt like hell, as always. He fell to the floor, waiting for the images to invade his mind.

 _A young man, determined, walked into an abandoned building, carrying a flame thrower. A hunter. Sam could only see his back. The man walked in and used his weapon on something in the corner. A creature. The hunter set the thing on fire, but it was far from over. A second monster came in. Catching the man by surprise, it stabbed him in the back with a knife. The young man had not had time to fight back. It was all over. Just as he fell, Sam caught a sight of his face: green eyes. Dean. It was Dean._

Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean.

 _Oh my god... Oh my god..._

Dean was in danger. Sam didn't have a choice anymore. Whether or not being reunited with his family was the right call, he couldn't stay away from Dean if Dean needed him. Sam prayed to God that he wasn't too late for this. If he were, well then, wouldn't that just be the cherry on the fucking cake? Being finally free, trying to get to Dean, only to be late. Too late to save his brother.

Sam had to find him. This could be a small part of his redemption- not that he thought there was anything on this earth that could fully redeem him- but if he could save his brother, maybe that would make up for all the ones he couldn't save. Maybe, just a little. Maybe it would lower the phantom sounds of cries and desperation that he heard every time he closed his eyes. Besides, if there was one person, only one person that Sam couldn't let die, it was his brother.

It was a good thing that he had recognized the abandoned building from his vision. It was a place that he and Dean had passed by a few times. Three years ago, when they were staying in that exact same motel room, waiting for a dad that was never entirely returning to them. They had passed right by this place on the way to school and back. This was too much to be a coincidence. Sam didn't have time to give it much thoughts. He was racing outside, running to that place, which wasn't all that far away. He was running to a brother he hadn't seen in a very long time. Just running.

Sam was inside the building. There. The second monster was poised and ready to attack. Sam was on it in a heartbeat. This monster didn't stand a chance. Sam punched it, hurt it, broke his arms, and legs, dislocated both the monster's shoulders, and destroyed the face: broken nose and jaw. Sam didn't leave any bone untouched. All that damage, and he was barely out of breath. He had gotten good at wiping the floor with monsters. He fought like one of them now.

 _Smoke._

He smelled smoke. The monster's limp body was starting to catch on fire. Sam quickly pushed it aside and raised his eyes.

Dean.

Dean had set the thing on fire, and he was looking right at Sam.

Dean's POV

Dean shouldn't have agreed to this. He shouldn't have said yes to this stupid hunt of a rugaru in Detroit, but Bobby had insisted. Two days after the bar thing, Bobby had talked to him about a hunt, and since they were already in the city, it was necessarily their job to take care of it. At first, Dean had refused. It wasn't a demon, which meant he'd have no use of a hunt like that. This had been the same argument he'd had with his dad all the fucking time. No one ever seemed to understand that, other than demons, all the nasty creatures could do whatever the hell they wanted, it wasn't Dean's problem anymore. So what if people were killed, or in danger, or needing help? People were always dying, no news flash there. If there was one lesson, only one, that Dean had been taught by life, it was that people died, and sometimes there wasn't a single thing that could be done to save them. Yet Bobby hadn't allowed him refused this job, guilting him into it with talk about how he couldn't do it alone, and asking Dean if he'd want to have Bobby's blood on his hands. The gruff old fucker had pushed all the right buttons, and Dean had finally given in.

They had tracked down the monster to an old abandoned building- a building that was familiar to Dean. Upon arriving, he and Bobby had split up to cover more ground.

Dean fought the rugaru, and it was quickly over. He used the flame thrower he had taken with him to get rid of the monster. As he was contemplating the thing burning up in flames, he thought of hunting. Dean used to love hunting, used to long for that rush of adrenaline that hunting could bring like nothing else. He used to feel useful, needed, essential to the world after having got rid of something that had been hurting people. He used to think that he was good at saving people. Not anymore. He was lost in his thoughts when suddenly another monster- another rugaru probably- caught him by surprise and came at him with a knife. He barely had time to register that he was going to die, when something else came out of nowhere and tackled the rugaru. Whatever it was that was fighting the monster was really good. Scary good. It surely couldn't be human. For a moment, Dean watched the fight before him, doing nothing. His "savior" fought like nothing he'd ever seen before, with desperation, and rage, and yet there was something that bothered Dean deeply about the thing. His heart was beating far too fast in his chest, his breathing was out of control. It was as if something huge was happening, something that he didn't even know about. Dean took a match out of his pocket and lit it, then tossed it on the rugaru along with some gas. He could have used the flame thrower on both monsters- could have, or should have. But he didn't, because it felt wrong. Why? Dean didn't know, just that something deep inside was screaming at him to wait before killing this other monster. This other monster who seemed to realize what was happening and looked up to Dean.

Time stopped. The monster was looking right at Dean: hazel eyes. There was no mistaking who those eyes belonged to. Even with the aging, Dean would have recognized the person in front of him anywhere.

 _Sammy._

His "savior" was Sammy. No, not Sammy. Of course it wasn't Sammy. Sammy was dead. Dean knew that. It wasn't like this was something he could just _forget_. Was he losing his mind? Having hallucinations of his dead little brother? It certainly held some appeal. Maybe Dean was finally losing it, imagining Sammy with him. It wouldn't have been the first time. Usually, he had imagined Sam stuck at age twelve. And usually it hadn't been so much an hallucination as a deep desire to see his brother once more by his side. It was a desire so strong that when he closed his eyes, Dean could almost see him. Almost.

This was different. Whoever that was, he looked like Sammy would have, age fifteen. So, either Dean was ready to be committed, or some creature was trying to fuck with his mind. Either way Dean was too tired to deal with this.

"Holy shit!"

Bobby. He must have finished his work on the other side of the building. So, Dean wasn't hallucinating after all.

"Yeah, I know Bobby. This… thing saved my life. We have to find out what this is, if someone sent it here and why."

Who would have thought that Dean could keep his calm when everything hurt so much.

 _It's not Sammy. It's not Sammy. It's not Sammy. It's not Sammy. It's not Sammy. It's not Sammy._

Dean just had to keep that in mind and everything would be okay.

He restrained the thing's hands. The thing that didn't even try to fight him off, or run. It just looked at him. Stared at him. For a second, Dean could have sworn that he recognized something in the creature's eyes.

"So, tell me. What are you?"

No response. Just more staring.

 _It's not Sammy. It's not Sammy. It's not Sammy. It's really not._

"Look, I don't know if you've heard of me. My name is Dean Winchester. And really, you don't want to mess with me. I've dealt with all kinds of shits. I know all kinds of funny little tricks to get you to talk. So, let's save us some time, shall we, and just tell me what you are."

 _Don't look at his eyes. Don't look at his eyes_. _It's not Sammy. It's not_.

"Who sent you here? Was it this yellow eyed demon?"

A shiver. The creature just shivered and said nothing. One thing was sure: it knew what Dean was talking about.

"Dean, I think we should take it back to the motel room. Try to test him, see what it could be."

Dean wasn't the only one affected by this monster. Bobby's voice seemed different. He, too, seemed a little bit spooked.

The ride back to the motel room was made in complete silence. Dean was okay with that. It wasn't like he had all that much to say. He wasn't stupid enough to think that the creature was going to give him any information about the demon. Dean had tortured enough of them to know by now that none of them talked. He just had to go back to his room, test the thing with holy water, silver, salt. All of the usual crap. He would try and fail- always _fail_ \- to get the monster to give him something that could help him find his prey. Then, he would kill the fucker impersonating Sammy. Plain and simple. Dean would go back to his life. Nothing will have changed. Absolutely nothing. Sam will remain dead, his Dad gone, and Dean, well Dean would still be… He didn't know what he'd be. Probably about the same. Cold inside. Not really dead. Not really living. Just there, _going on_.

For a moment when the second rugaru had attacked him, he had thought that it was finally over, that it was it. The end. No more Dean Winchester in this poor excuse of a world. Dean had felt so much relief for it to be finally over. He had even dared to hope to see Sammy in death. The rugaru could have done Dean a favor by putting him out of his misery, something Dean couldn't do himself. That wasn't what had happened. Apparently if there was a God, he hadn't wanted him to die tonight. Dean, the lucky man.

After arriving to their motel room, they tied _it_ to a chair, secure under a devil's trap. It was crazy, and Dean was sometimes stupid, but he'd actually been careful with the monster all the way back to the motel. He really needed to recover from this shock, and fast. He needed to scare this thing if he wanted answers. Softness wouldn't get him anywhere.

"What are you?"

No answer. Bobby test it with holy water without any result. They spent the next hours testing it for anything they could think of. They still had no clue as to what it could be. It still wasn't talking. If it would have been any other creature, Dean would have tortured it by now. This time, he just couldn't. It looked like Sammy.

It... fucking... looked... exactly... like... Sammy.

Dean couldn't bear to hear his brother scream under his hands, even if it wasn't his brother.

Thank God Bobby had an idea. Something that didn't include any form of torture.

"Look, a friend of mine recently gave me some sort of spell revealing true identity that could show us this thing's real face. All the ingredients are back in my place. We could try it. It would be a hell of a lot faster."

"Let's go."

Dean didn't have the energy to try for anything else anyway. They were really far away from South Dakota. It took them about fourteen hours to get there. Fourteen hours of straight driving for Dean, and complete silence for all of them. Sad thing was that this had not even been Dean's weirdest, nor more awkward drive.

They finally got to Bobby's house. While Dean was securing the monster, Bobby prepared the ingredients for the spell.

"You sure it'll work Bobby?"

"Positive, I tested it myself a few times already. It has never failed."

The mixture was red, sticky, and disgusting. Bobby used it to draw a symbol on the unidentified creature's wrist. Nothing happened. The monster kept wearing Sammy's skin.

"You doing it right?"

No response.

"Bobby, you sure this thing's working?"

"Stay here with him. I need to make sure of something."

"What the hell, Bobby... Where you going?"

Bobby was already gone. He came back twenty minutes later- not that Dean was counting- and looked horrified, and freaked, and white as a sheet. Something was wrong. Dean didn't have time to ask him what was going on, he was being dragged outside. Near Sammy's grave. Sammy's grave that was freshly dug up.

"What the fuck did you do, Bobby? What did you do!"

"That's not Sam's body. We didn't bury Sam. Go look."

 _What the hell?_

Bobby was losing his freaking mind. It was the only explanation. Dean walked to his little brother's grave, slowly. It was a place he'd had no intention of ever returning to. Never. But now Bobby had fucked up, leaving Dean with no choice. He finally reached the grave and looked down.

It wasn't Sammy.

The body wasn't Sam. It was a young boy's body, that was for sure. What had undeniably looked like Sam three years ago was someone else now. It didn't make sense. Dean had buried Sam. His dad had checked. There had been no doubt. Sammy was dead. It had taken Dean long enough to try and digest that information. Now, of all the sudden, Bobby uses a spell and excepts Dean to believe that the creature inside the house is indeed his brother. Nothing was making sense anymore.

Dean didn't get to hope, not about something like that. Sammy was _dead dead dead dead dead_. Dean had lost him ages ago. That was the truth- the ugly, unthinkable, gut wrenching- truth. So why was Bobby showing him otherwise? Didn't he know that Dean couldn't handle another disappointment? Another loss?

"Dean, listen to me. That spell is a hundred percent sure. The friend that gave it to me is the real deal. She knows her stuff pretty well. I told you, it has never failed. I think... Dammit... I think we were lead to believe that your brother was dead. Think about it. It's the perfect plan. Taking Sam from you, then making you and everyone else believe that he was dead, so no one would look for him."

Bobby was starting to make sense. Fuck, Dean had felt something all along. Since he had seen the creature- or maybe not a creature, he had sensed that something was happening. He was starting to believe. Three years of entire helplessness, of being hopeless, and Dean was suddenly _hoping_.

"We need... Bobby, we need to be sure. I can't... We need to be sure about this."

He couldn't let himself think that he had his brother back, not if it turned out to be untrue. Losing Sam a second time wasn't something he could do.

"Listen boy, I got a forensic friend near by, I could take, um... some hair from the body and some from whatever is inside my house and take it to him. He could run some test and we could know for sure."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. I'll stay here and watch over... you know."

Bobby carefully took what he needed from the corpse. Dean had not the strength to look. They went back inside the house, and this time it was Dean that took the hair from the thing. He refused to refer to it as Sam, except he was getting tired of having to think of it as a "it", or a thing, or a monster, or a creature.

Not-Sam didn't move when Dean pulled a strand of his hair. Bobby told him that he'd probably be back in a few hours. Good thing that the place was full of alcohol. Dean sat down comfortably at the kitchen table and started drinking. It was a perfect means to prevent him for having to think of anything. He just sat there, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, keeping a close eye on not-Sam.

After three hours, Bobby called at last.

"The body isn't Sam. We never buried him. Sam is alive, sitting in the house. There is no doubt. Your brother is alive."

Dean got up from his chair, stumbling a little to get to where not-Sam was tied. Not-Sam raised his head up and looked at Dean, really looked at him, and Dean looked back.

Not-Sam was Sammy.

 _Dean, help._

 _Sammy's dead._

 _You don't have a brother anymore Dean._

 _Your brother is alive._

The words were mingled in Dean's head. All the words he couldn't forget. All the words that had haunted him for so long. In the end, only one sentence mattered the most. Only one could be his salvation: Your brother is alive _._

Sammy was alive. Looking at him, not saying a word. His little brother wasn't dead.

What the hell was Dean supposed to do now? He had been dreaming of this moment for so long. Now that it was real, now that Sammy was finally back with him, well, Dean didn't know what to do. He had forgotten how to be an older brother. Consumed by his rage and need for blood and revenge, he had lost himself, or at least a part of himself. Then, something unexpected happened, his muscles seemed to remember what he was supposed to do. His mind might have forgotten what it was like to have someone to look after, but not his body. Because of all the sudden, he walked right to Sam and hugged him.

Three years. Three years was a very long time, Dean had no idea what had happened to Sam. He didn't know how much his brother had changed- surely a lot. Nothing mattered, nothing except that Sammy was here, and Dean was hugging him. Maybe being an older brother wasn't something that could be forgotten. Maybe he had never stopped being one. Maybe this was such a huge part of him that nothing- _nothing_ , not even fake death- could ever take away from him. Dean was Sam's older brother. Three years of sorrow and pain and alcohol hadn't changed that. Being an older brother was forever Dean's job.

God, he'd had Sammy back for less than a few minutes and already he was turning into a girl, hugging him and crying. He really needed to let go of him to start asking questions. There was so many things that he needed the answers to. Like what had happened to him? Why had the body they buried looked like Sam? Did Sammy know who had taken him? Where had he been all this time? Was he okay? Not that Dean thought that Sammy could be anywhere near "okay". One could always hope. Dean almost laughed at the thought: hope, he could fucking hope again.

In order to know the answers to all his concerns, he had to let go of Sam first to untie him. Shit, he had forgotten about the rope restraining him. With trembling hands, he managed to get the rope off Sam. _Sam_. Sam wasn't entirely up that Dean was taking him in his arms again.

Dean just lingered into the embrace for a few more seconds, then he finally let him go. This was okay, this wasn't an "I'm letting go of you down a hole", no, he wasn't abandoning Sam alone in the dark. He was just ending the hug thing for now, before he killed every last shred of manhood. One of his hand remained attached to Sam's arm, gripping him, anchoring Sam to him. Okay, so Dean wasn't entirely ready to let go.

"What happened, Sam?"

 _Please talk to me. Please let me help._

"You're not wearing your amulet anymore."

Obviously, the first words that Sam spoke would have to be something like that: something that went right through Dean, making him _feel_ so damn much. What could Dean say, really? That he couldn't wear it anymore? That he didn't deserve it anymore? It wasn't just some stupid, ugly piece of jewelry that Sam had given him out of hand. It was so much more. This necklace represented their relationship. It represented the trust that Sam had always had in Dean, the knowledge that no matter what, Dean was there for Sam. This gift had been an unspoken promise between the two of them- a promise that had been broken.

That was why Dean wasn't wearing it anymore. He had lost the right to. Somewhere along the way, he had lost that privilege.

"No, I'm not wearing it."

 _Nice change of subject by the way Sammy._

"Why?"

Fuck, Dean had missed Sammy's "Whys". Even if this one hurt like hell, at least Sammy was here to ask questions. Sam must have already known the answer to that "Why", because he didn't let Dean answer. Apparently, Sam had been silent all this time because he'd been waiting for Dean to realize that _he was_ Sammy.

"You should wear it again. I want you to."

Dean searched through his pocket and retrieved his necklace. Even if he didn't wear it anymore, he had still kept it close to him. With shaky hands, he put it back on, where it belonged. The weight of it on his neck felt so much heavier than he remembered. Perhaps it was because to Dean, this felt like a second chance. Life was giving him a second chance to _not screw up_. Second chances were very rare things in their lines of work. Hell, second chances were rare, period.

"Thanks."

What he was thanking Sam for, Dean didn't know. This was probably a thank you for not hating me. A thank you for not being dead. A thank you for letting me be your older brother again.

He still needed to have some serious answers.

"Sam, what happened?"

"I don't know."

Yeah, like Dean was going to believe that. In any case, Sam didn't give him time to question him further.

"Please Dean, please. I don't want to talk."

Dean knew that this was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Sam was never going to be ready to tell him what had happened. Waiting was stupid. Thing was: Dean didn't give a fuck about being stupid. The last time his brother had asked him to do something- like moving out of a motel room- he had refused, then all hell had broken loose. So, if Sam wanted to delay the heart-to-heart conversation about what exactly occurred during his absence, then Dean was going to let him. For the night.

"Okay Sammy. It's late anyway. You should go to bed. Rest or something."

 _I'll be right next to you._

It was the first night he'd had his brother back, so there was no way in hell he was leaving him. He stayed on a chair next to the bed, listening to his little brother breathing. He just had to make sure- make sure that he was still here, that he wasn't gonna disappear on him again. He stayed there, even when Bobby returned and watched him, watched them, standing by the door. They didn't talk. That could wait. For tonight, Dean could just enjoy the moment. He fell asleep on that chair, and when morning came, he was awake, and his hand was resting on Sam's chest. Maybe Dean should have felt embarrassed by the contact, only he wasn't, because he had craved for it for three years.

During the night, someone had put a blanket on Dean's shoulder. He had probably been way too tired to notice anything. Tired to the point of being oblivious to an old friend- someone who hadn't been simply a friend and more of a father than anything else for quite some time- making sure that he wasn't cold while asleep.

Sammy opened his eyes.

"Hey, how did you sleep?"

 _Make small talks, Dean. Ignore the fucking huge elephant in the room._

Sam didn't really answered him, he just shrugged his shoulders. No small talks, then.

"Let's get downstairs and eat some breakfast okay?"

They could do that. Eating breakfast was easy. Dean could take care of Sammy. Feed him. Make sure he was as close to "alright" as possible. Then, they will talk.

Bobby's kitchen didn't have that much. Just the essentials stuff. When the brothers reached the kitchen, they found Bobby already making scramble eggs for them. Bobby was no cook, but the gesture was there. He tried his best not to stare at Sammy too long, or come too close to him. He just put a hand on Sam's shoulder and said:

"It's good to see you, kid."

Bobby had never been a man of words. What hunter was, really? However, the emotion was clear in the man's voice.

"Eat, boys. I think you're gonna need all the strength you can get. I'll be in my office. Just yell if ya need anything."

The "and talk to each other while I'm gone, idjits" was very clear, even if not spoken out loud. Dean tried to eat normally, without staring at Sam every half second, at which he failed miserably. Sam was here, eating breakfast with him. The whole thing was surreal.

"We need to talk."

Those were the words Dean usually reserved for chicks, but since Sam wasn't going to break the silence and make the first move, Dean was going to have to. It was his role to take the lead, be in charge.

Sammy didn't seem to have listened to him. Dean knew better. He knew that Sam had heard the words.

"Sammy, I know you don't want to talk. But we have to. I need to know."

Sam carefully laid the fork next to his plate, not watching him, eyes down. For a moment, Dean remembered the ferocity that he had witnessed in his brother, back in Detroit. When the rugaru had tried to attack him, Sam had taken care of it in a way that was so unlike the Sam of three years ago. Despite that, Dean wasn't going to be afraid, not of Sammy. Never _of_ Sammy.

"Sam, please man, talk to me."

"There is nothing to say."

"Who took you?"

That question had tortured Dean long enough. He knew so little of the demon that had destroyed him. Destroyed them all. Sam tensed immediately at the question. Pure terror invaded his posture. Dean had never seen his brother so terrified at the mention of someone. As if Sam were waiting for the pain to come. Dean saw red. Sammy was only a kid when he had last seen him, but he was a tough kid, barely afraid of anything. This Sam was very different, yet there were still some things about his brother that hadn't changed.

"Sammy, the demon that took you, is he still alive?"

If he was alive, then Dean was ready to hunt him down and torture him. He was prepared for it. Hell, he was going to enjoy the torture. With Sam to give him precious clues, this hunt was going to be a hell of a lot easier. Dean could finally have his revenge.

"Yes, he's still alive."

"How did you get out?"

If the demon wasn't dead, how had Sam manage to escape?

"I didn't."

 _Huh?_

"I just woke up in a motel room. And I was free. I don't know what happened."

Sam had yet to meet Dean's eyes.

"You don't know how you got out? You think this demon just let you go?"

If this was the case, then they were in deep shit. This was probably part of some demonic plan. Well fuck them, Dean was ready to fight. No one was going to take his brother away from him. Never again. Dean felt the weight of the amulet once again. There was no breaking promises this time. No more screwing up.

"No, I don't think he let me go. Something else did it. I don't know what. But it wasn't Azazel."

"Azazel? That's the name of the demon that took you?"

"Yes."

A name. A name was an excellent thing. Dean finally knew the name of the son of a bitch he was going to kill.

"Are you sure it wasn't him?"

"I'm sure."

"How?"

"I just am."

 _Cryptic there, Sammy_. At least he wasn't completely unresponsive. That was something. Sam got a paper out of his pocket and put it down on the table for Dean to take. It was a note that said: "Please forgive me."

"What is that?

"I found it in the motel room. Next to the bed. I don't know who or what wrote it."

Okay, so the one million dollar question was now: "Who got Sammy out and why?"

"Why… why did this demon take you?"

Dean wasn't stupid enough to think that Sam had been treated anywhere near decent during the last years. Dean had to know the extent of his brother's torture. It was the only way for him to help.

"I don't know."

Right there was a lie. Dean knew. Sam knew Dean knew. This was getting way too complicated for a morning discussion.

"I, huh… Did you… what was it like?"

 _Come on Dean, get your shit together._

Sam didn't acknowledged his question this time. He just kept on his contemplation of the so fascinating plate before him. Their conversation was done for now.

"I'm gonna take a shower."

Crap, it wasn't like Dean could follow him there. Before Sam had completely left the kitchen's table, he turned around, whispering so softly that Dean almost didn't catch the words:

"Hell, it was hell."

Yeah, Dean had figured that much.

During the next few days, Dean had expected to wake up at any moment and realize this was just a dream. But he didn't. Having Sammy back kept being real. He was still by Dean's side. He and Bobby had tried to call John to tell him the news, only he was unreachable. They'd left him messages, messages that were surely going to cause John to have a heart attack or something, that is IF he ever decided to check his phone. Not that Dean would never admit it, but he needed his dad here. Sammy needed their dad here. So if John Winchester could just do everyone a favor and finally listen to his voicemail that would be just peachy. The days passed, and John didn't call back. They were alone.

Dean watched over Sam like a hawk. He was surprised that his brother hadn't kicked him and told him to back off. Not that he would have listened. The more he watched Sam, the more he could learn about his brother, see all the little and not so little changes in him. Those years unaccounted for- those years when Dean had no idea where Sam was- they had changed his brother. Nothing surprising here. Dean was trying to put the pieces back together. Sam had developed some weird habits: like touching his wrists constantly. It was driving Dean crazy. There was nothing on his brother's wrist, except Sam seemed to think that there was.

The physical changes were also there: hair longer, Sammy was taller, though still a little bit smaller than Dean. He kept his head down, never meeting anyone eyes unless asked to.

Then, there was the constant state of alert Sammy always seemed to be in. Every time Dean or Bobby came close to him unexpectedly, there was an immediate reaction: one of fear and horror. It was pretty clear that Sam was expecting pain, lots and lots of pain. Every time this happened, it made Dean clench his fists, and he could only think of one thing: torture. Sam had been tortured. Problem was, Dean couldn't see any physical evidence. He had tried to look for any kind of marks or scars but there was nothing to see. Then again, he only saw his brother with clothes on. Maybe all the scars were hidden away, underneath. It wasn't like he could just go to Sam and say: "Hey dude, could you take off your shirt? I just need to see something really quick." That conversation wouldn't go very well.

Anyway, Dean was putting the pieces of the puzzles together, forming a picture he didn't like. There wasn't an inch of doubt that he didn't know the worst of it yet. He didn't have the ugliest pieces of the puzzle. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to.

Dean tried to learn more about what had happened by simply asking questions, but Sam's lips were sealed. There wasn't that much that Dean could do if his little brother didn't decide to confide in him. Watching him suffer like that was taking a toll on him.

The nightmares were the worst. There were bad, and constant, some nights worse than others. Usually, Dean would just walk over Sammy, cross the distance between their beds, and tell him that everything was fine. Sometimes that worked. Some nights it didn't. There were nights when Sam would scream at the top of his lungs, begging for the pain to stop. Nights when he screamed Dean's name. On those nights, all the words in the world were useless. And Dean didn't take it very well. There was something utterly heart stabbing about hearing Sammy scream for him like that, as if he had probably called for him a thousand times when he was away. So yeah, Dean didn't take that very well. Those nights, he would climb into his brother's bed, lying next to him through the night, telling him over and over again that he was there.

During the day, neither brother acknowledged the fact that they had spent the night in the same bed. Dean really didn't care if they were too old for that. He didn't care how close to a chick-flick that was. Sammy needed him there, plain and simple. Dean wasn't known to refuse anything that kid needed. So what if Dean needed it too?

Usually after a particularly bad night, Bobby would make sure that their breakfast was ready and enjoyable by the next morning. He wanted to give the boys some sense of normalcy. At the same time he'd let Dean take care of things his way. Bobby was a soothing presence, here with them, never invading. While John had yet to call back, or come to them.

On one of the very bad nights, Dean woke up to find Sam's bed empty. The horror and panic that he felt only lasted a few seconds, just enough time to notice the light coming out of the bathroom. He didn't know what had driven him to get up to make sure that Sam was alright- gut instinct, brother's intuition or what- he just did. He knocked on the door a few times, and when no response came, he opened the bathroom door. Screw privacy.

Sammy.

Sam was... he was cutting his arms. He was tracing cuts all over his left arm, up and down. Dean was on him in a heartbeat.

"Sam, stop. What the hell are you doing?"

"The pain, I need the pain. I need the pain, Dean. Please I need… I need it. The pain. Can't you see it? I'm alive Dean. The pain makes me alive."

Dean pried the razor out of his hands and threw it away in the trashcan. He cleaned the wounds, methodically, thoroughly- like this was a normal hunting injury. Like this wasn't something Sammy inflicted on himself. Like this wasn't something big. Like Dean hadn't completely screwed up. That was okay though. So, what if Sam was losing it a little? What if he needed to hurt himself? What if he was traumatized? Sam was still _alive_. Definitively in pain and hurting. But alive. Dean would choose a traumatized Sammy over no Sammy at all any day. No contest.

"Sammy, look at me. Come on, look at me."

 _Please don't ever make me put you down a hole. I can't do it again. I barely did it the first time._

Hazel eyes were watching him. Broken eyes. Even if it took Dean a lifetime, he was determined to erase that look of desperation from his brother's eyes.

"Don't you ever do that. You hear me? You don't need it. That's bullshit. Pain is never about life _._ Never. You ever feel the need to do it again, you come right to me. I mean it Sammy! I don't care if it's the middle of the night. You come and get me, and I'll make it alright. I'm gonna fix this Sammy. I promise you, I'm gonna fix this. You trust me?"

What if Sam didn't trust him anymore? Three years. He had let his little brother down for three years. What if Sammy resented him? Blamed him? How could he trust him again? After all the things that Dean had failed to do, after-

"Okay Dean, okay. I trust you."

"Good. Good."

Dean's voice didn't quiver under the emotions. Absolutely not. He was just tired. It was the middle of the night, after all.

"Now, tell me what's wrong. You gotta let me in and tell me what's wrong Sammy."

Dean saw the hesitation in his brother's eyes. He saw all the things Sam couldn't say, and so much more. He saw the exact moment his little brother decided to _try_.

"Sammy's dead. _I_ am dead."

"No, you're not. You _were_ dead. Not anymore."

"It's too late Dean. It's too late for me."

"Like hell it is! There is no such thing as "too late". I'm bringing you back Sammy. I don't care what it takes. I'm fucking bringing you back."

 _You just watch me._

"I don't know how to be Sam anymore. I don't remember. I don't remember what it felt like to be your brother Dean. I can't remember how."

"It's okay Sammy. It's okay. I'm having a little trouble remembering how to be your older brother too. We can remember together. I know this isn't something that we can fix in a few days. I know that. But we can do it. I know it. I feel it, okay? It's gonna be okay Sammy, I promise."

Sam didn't seem to believe him. Dean had all the time in the world to prove him wrong.

They went back to bed. He heard his brother trying to settle into the sheets.

"Goodnight Sammy."

"Goodnight Dean."

Yes, Dean truly believed that things could be okay again.

The next morning, his cell phone rang.

John. It was about fucking time. Dean went outside into the salvage yard to take the phone call.

"Dad, where the hell are you? Did you get the messages? Bobby and I have been trying to call you for days. It's really Sammy, Dad. It's really him. We checked. I swear it's him. Where are you? What happened to you?"

 _Why didn't you come to us?_

"When can you be here? Dad?"

Silence, then finally: "Dean."

No. _No, no, no, no_. Dean knew that voice. He'd heard it throughout all his childhood. This was the voice that his dad used when he was about to do something stupid. Like giving up on his children. Like not showing up when everything was so…

"When are you gonna be able to come, Dad?"

 _Come on Dad, come on. Don't leave me here alone again. Please don't do that. I'm tired of being left behind._

"I can't come Dean. I can't."

"You got a hunt causing you trouble?"

It was a stupid question to ask. Dean knew that. He knew that this wasn't a "I will come, don't worry, I'm just being held up" thing. This was his father screwing up. Leaving them again.

"I'm not coming. I… I got something to do first. It's about the demon that took Sammy. I can't tell you more. But I gotta do this."

"You can't do that. You hear me Dad? You have to come here. Sam's your son. _Yours_. You can't just _not come_. I… Sammy needs you here. I… dammit Dad, I need you here. Please, don't you do that. Whatever this is, we can do it together. Whatever you found about this demon, we take care of it as a family."

Perhaps they haven't been a family for a really long time. With Sammy back, that could all change. They could start again. Be a family again. They could all stop _hurting_ so damn much.

"Dean, it's too dangerous. I have to do this alone. It's for the best. You can take care of Sammy. I know you can."

"Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you. I know I can take care of him! It's not about that. I don't want to have to do it alone. Please don't make me do it alone. I'm _begging_ you, come here, and help me. Sammy is a mess. We don't even know who let him go. He won't tell me what happened."

"Dean, I'm so sorry son. I have to do this."

Dean was done pleading the guy. Done expecting things from him that he would never get. They were at a breaking point. If his dad didn't start reaching for them now, it was all going to be over. It was time for Dean to get angry.

"I don't want your fucking apologies. You got two days to come at Bobby's place. Two days, you hear me? If you're not here by then, don't you bother coming back. Two days, and if you're not here, this is all over. I don't ever want to see you again, or talk to you or hear from you. Two days or you're dead to me."

Dean closed his cellphone. He needed to break things, a lot of things. Good thing he was surrounded by a bunch of old cars. He found a wrench in Bobby's junkyard and started hitting. On the windows, on the hoods. Everything was fair game. Anything to just stop feeling. After all this time, Dean was still a stupid moron. Still expecting things from his father. How could he be such a fool, such an idiotic, hopeful little shit? After all this time, how could Dean still imagine that his dad was going to be here? Maybe because Dean had always believed that family came first, it apparently wasn't the case for John. Dean needed to let go of the anger. He needed to feel the cracks of the cars under his hands. Needed to destroy and damage, and hurt. He needed to _let go._ Each hit had a purpose, each hit took away a little bit of the desperation and the anguish and the pain.

One hit for leaving him alone after his mom died.

One hit for leaving him alone to take care of Sammy. Feed him. Bath him. Teach him how to walk and talk, and laugh, and just _live_.

One hit for making Dean feel useless and _not enough_. Why, why couldn't Dean ever be _enough_?

And finally, one hit for leaving him alone after burying Sammy.

Yes, Dean needed to break and hit things. What he really needed though, was a dad to hold onto, to stop him from all this hurting, to reassure him that he was here now, to tell him that everything was going to be okay. That was a dad he was never going to get. That was a dad he had lost on a November night when he was four years old.

 _Two days later…_

Bobby walked outside and saw an old truck parked near his junkyard.

John.

Bobby walked towards him, not knowing exactly if he was going to shoot the guy, punch him, strangle him, or hug him for finally coming. It was probably going to be a little bit of all that.

"You planning on coming inside the house?"

John Winchester looked miserable. It was kinda obvious to anyone who didn't have their head too far up their ass. There was something else in the hunter's eyes. Something that Bobby hadn't seen in a long time. Something that looked a lot like _hope_.

"How's Sam?"

"Why don't you come inside and see for yourself, John?"

It was time to cut the bullshit and man up- or rather in John's case, father up.

"I… I don't know what to tell them. I don't know how to fix Sam, Bobby. I don't know how. And Dean, Dean is going to kill me."

 _He'd have a good reason to._

"You could start by just being there for them. Being their father again. But I gotta warn you. Once you get inside that house, you're in for the long ride. There is no changing thoughts, or any leaving to "protect them". None of that crap. If you're in, you're in. So, what do you say?"

"I'm in."

"Good. Let's get inside and try to help those boys of yours."

Dean walked down the stairs. He needed coffee, and he needed it now. He was about to walk into Bobby's kitchen when he caught sight of something standing in the doorway. The "something" was actually a "someone". Someone he thought he would never see again: John.

Suddenly, his dad entered the room. Not John, the ex-marine, the hard core hunter. No, this was his _Dad,_ and he was hugging Dean before any words could be spoken. His dad had never hugged him or Sam. Sure, he had sometimes put a hand on their shoulders when things had gotten out of control, or if one of them had been badly hurt. But a hug? John Winchesters didn't do hugs.

For a second, Dean had to resist the urge to punch him to make him bleed a little, just on principle. For all the anger that he felt, it was gone the moment he had his father's arms around him. Last time he had been hugged like that was probably about fifteen years ago. It was a hug that screamed of home. It was something between holding on and letting go.

Before Dean could think of his actions, or remember that he was supposed to be mad, he was hugging him back. He was returning the embrace with a force he didn't know he still had, crushing his dad's arms, so _desperate_. It was Dean's own way to say: _Please don't let me go._

It didn't mean that all was forgiven, or that Dean had suddenly forgotten about all the times John had let them down. This was far from perfect, and they were far from okay. But it was something. It was a start. John was here.

TBC...

Tell me what you thought of this chapter. Thank you for reading !


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